An ending that still gives me the tingles
On Sunday, I moderated the final panel at Capclave, “Endings: Varieties of Wrapping Up,” during which I wrangled Brenda Clough, Ann Crispin, and Bud Webster. Actually, hardly any wrangling occurred. The four of us have known each other for at least twenty years, I think, so there was plenty of comfort there, and we could have easily talked for an hour on almost any subject.
In fact, we chattered so seamlessly that I never found an opportune moment to quote one of my favorite story endings of all time. If I’d done so, it would have stopped the flow of conversation, so I didn’t bother, and so I’ll share it here with you instead.
It comes from Jessica Amanda Salmonson’s “Time-Slit Through a Rice Paper Window,” which continues to amaze me, and which I published way back in 1984 in the Summer 1984 issue of Last Wave.
Here’s how her story concludes:
A few days later (we are time traveling again) Kohachi is home with his mother. There is much ado about the marriage preparations and the invitations which must be sent out. A servant is replacing the torn windows in the rice paper screens and doors, so everything will be spiffy for the celebration. We won’t be able to see through the time-slit much longer. What will happen to Kohachi after we are gone? Perhaps he has a good life with his bride, winning a few more duels in his life. Perhaps there is a war and he goes off to that and dies, or else is a success and becomes a wealthy warlord. Possibly the son of someone he killed comes and duels with him and wins. It is difficult to know what occurs in the life of the people in a story after the story ends. If we have any hearts at all, we must suffer thinking about it. That’s why stories sometimes say “happily ever after” or else kill all the characters off, so that we won’t have to worry about it. As for Kohachi, we have no idea what happens to him after this. We can always hope for the best.
I know I’m biased, but twenty-seven years after I first read them, those words still give me the tingles.
Originally published at Scott Edelman. You can comment here or there.